


take my heart and take my hand

by somehowunbroken



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: D/s, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 07:26:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5776822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somehowunbroken/pseuds/somehowunbroken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dylan misses it, at first.</p><p>(In which Dylan doesn't realise that he and Connor are a thing until he does.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	take my heart and take my hand

**Author's Note:**

> written for [a sinbin prompt](http://thesinbin.dreamwidth.org/3088.html?thread=3339536#cmt3339536): "Connor's always been kind of traditional for a sub that plays hockey, and sure, maybe that sometimes went to Dylan's head and he got little toppier than normal, but they never dated or anything. Strictly buddies - it wasn't like *that*. But now Connor's calling Dylan from Edmonton asking what he should eat for dinner and what he should wear, and Dylan is starting to get the feeling that he might be missing something.
> 
> basically, baby dom Dylan Strome just wants to wrap Connor up in soft blankets and feed him chocolates and protect him from the world, and Connor is fully in favor of this."
> 
> hope this is something like what you wanted, anonprompter.
> 
> all my love to ari, who agreed to beta without knowing what i was sending her, and then did it anyway. you're the greatest. <3

Dylan misses it, at first.

He misses it at second, too, and probably a whole bunch more times before he finally catches on. Connor's his best friend, and they've always been a little weird where the other one is concerned, so Dylan feels like maybe he should be given a pass on this.

Except.

"Hey," Connor says when Dylan answers his FaceTime call. "I have chicken breasts in the fridge. What should I do with them?"

"Cook them?" Dylan says vaguely. He's got a theory; he's testing it. See, ha, he totally remembers high school science. Marns can fuck right off.

"But how?" Connor persists.

Dylan hums a little. "What are you in the mood for?"

"Dylan," Connor whines. His whole face does something terrible and sad.

"Connor," Dylan mimics, but he sighs a little. "Don't you have that sprinkly seasoning shit? The pre-made stuff from the store?"

"Yeah," Connor says, perking up a little. "So I should make it that way? With the chicken seasoning?"

"And some starch on the side," Dylan adds. "Pasta. And melt a little butter on it."

Connor visibly hesitates. "Butter?" he says doubtfully. "That's not exactly in the diet plan."

"You deserve things that taste good," Dylan says, wondering what Connor's reaction will be.

Connor flushes and smiles and looks away, and. Well.

Well.

-0-

Dylan's not a super dynamic guy by nature, but Connor - Connor's _really_ dynamic. He's absolute magic on the ice, but he can be a total mess off of it; apparently his first season in Erie had been a near disaster until someone had figured it out. It's not like Dylan going to Erie had fixed everything overnight, but he and Connor had clicked almost instantly, and Dylan had found it easy to just do whatever Connor needed him to do.

Looking back on it now, that maybe should've been Dylan's first clue.

It had just seemed natural, is the thing. It wasn't a big deal to make sure he was always near Connor, to praise him when he made impossible things look like an afterthought, to cuddle up to him and talk him through the aftermath of a bad game, to kick him firmly out of his own head when he couldn't drag himself out. It wasn't weird to get Connor a plate at team breakfast when he got his own, or to tell him to change his shirt when they all went out, or to toss himself into Connor's bed and draw him in after and pet his hair until he slept.

That… maybe should've also been a clue. A bunch of clues.

But they weren't doing anything, not really. A lot of the guys on the team thought they were, and it's not like Dylan or Connor had done a lot to talk them out of that idea, but it wasn't anything more than Dylan helping out, helping Connor. They weren't doing anything for real. They were never messing around. They definitely weren't dating.

Except.

"Hey," Connor says when Dylan calls him. He sounds half asleep. "What's up?"

"Were you napping?" Dylan asks.

"Don't worry about it."

"Davo," Dylan warns.

Connor sighs. "Yeah, I was, but I'd rather talk to you."

"You should sleep," Dylan says, frowning up at his ceiling. "We can talk later."

There's a moment of silence, and Dylan wonders if Connor drifted off. Just as Dylan's about to hang up, Connor sighs. "If you say so," he says, but he sounds really reluctant.

"I say so," Dylan says firmly. "Call me when you get up."

"Okay," Connor says. He sounds mostly asleep again already. "I will."

Dylan pulls up Connor's schedule on his phone. Connor has mentioned a few times that he's more tired now than he ever had been in Erie; Dylan might have only gone through training camp with the Coyotes, but that was enough to give him a taste of what Connor must be dealing with now. It's probably worse for him, Dylan reflects. Nobody's asking Dylan to save the Coyotes.

There's no game scheduled for tonight, so Dylan's not worried about getting in the way of any of Connor's pre-game routines. It was probably just a rough practice, he tells himself. Connor's been tired, and the Oilers are still a giant mess, even with Connor there. It's not a big deal that Connor's asleep in the middle of the afternoon.

Dylan's phone rings at five on the dot, and he smiles a little as he picks it up. "Hey, Davo."

"Stromer," Connor says, still sounding completely out of it. "'m awake now."

"You sure about that, bud?" Dylan asks, trying his best not to laugh.

"No," Connor admits, then yawns. "I'm sitting up, though. Closer."

"Rough practice?" Dylan asks. When Connor hesitates, Dylan sits up and frowns a little. "Connor. Tell me about it."

"It's nothing," Connor says quietly, but Dylan doesn't have to prompt him to continue. "It's just - the whole team is kind of a mess? And it's… a lot." He sighs. "And I think I'm, like, catching a cold or something. I'm super tired."

Dylan frowns. "You need to tell the trainers," he says sternly. "Don't fuck around with your health, Connor."

"I will," Connor says around a yawn. "I thought I could just sleep it off, but ugh. I'll tell them tomorrow."

"Connor," Dylan says.

"I _will_ ," Connor repeats. "Whatever you say goes, right?"

And the thing is - the thing is, he sounds as lighthearted as he can while he's still half-asleep, but Dylan is definitely settling into the idea that he means it. It's a lot to adjust to, but it's just a mental shift. Nothing about them is actually changing, so Dylan doesn't have to think of what his answer should be here. "Yeah, you know it."

-0-

They're watching the Oilers game, Dylan and Brinksy, because it's the middle of the week and they don't have a game of their own. It's always good to watch Connor's games, to see what physics-defying moves he's come up with in his spare time now, to find the little moments Dylan knows he'll be beating himself up over later so he can figure out how to prepare his defense against it.

It doesn't unfold in slow motion, though that's how he'll remember it later. It's quick, sharp, bright: Connor loses an edge too close to the boards, too close to the two guys chasing him down the ice. He tumbles, the Flyers tumble, and Dylan can't hear the sickening crunch over the television, but it's echoing in his head anyway.

He doesn't say anything as Connor sits on the ice, as he gets up, as he picks up his stick and skates off. He can't make himself say a word when Connor sits on the bench, too busy tracing the lines in Connor's expression, wondering why the fuck he's not being hustled down the tunnel when he's so obviously not okay.

"Stromer," Brinksy finally croaks, and that's when Dylan cracks.

"Fuck, fuck," he breathes out. "God _fucking_ damn the Flyers." His hands are clenching and unclenching with the need to do something, to reach through the screen and beat the shit out of everyone in orange and white.

"Stromer," Brinksy says again, something wild in his tone, and when Dylan turns he's forcibly reminded that Brinksy needs almost as much as Connor does, and that Dylan's reaction is probably not helping anything. Brinksy's fingers are clenched so tightly into the pillow on his lap that Dylan can't see his fingertips, and he's pale as a ghost.

"Hey," Dylan says, taking a deep breath and forcing his own fingers to relax. "Hey. Alex. C'mon, c'mere, he's gonna be fine." He puts as much confidence into his voice as he can as he leans over and tugs Brinksy in. Brinksy shakes a little as they replay the fall, the hit, Connor's little quickly-hidden grimace as he finally gets to his feet. "He's going to be fine," Dylan repeats, and Brinksy gives a jerky little nod.

Connor doesn't come back from the locker room.

-0-

 _Call me,_ Dylan texts when the announcement comes that Connor won't be returning to the game. _When you're done call me. I don't care what time it is._

-0-

It's two in the morning before Dylan's phone finally rings.

"Connor," Dylan says, hoping his voice doesn't sound as desperate as he feels. "Talk to me."

"It hurts," Connor says, sounding younger than he has in a long, long time. "It's broken, Dyls. I broke my collarbone."

Dylan breathes out slowly. It's nothing he wasn't expecting, but still. "Fuck."

"It hurts," Connor repeats. "They gave me medicine, and I'm kind of sleepy."

"Yeah, I bet," Dylan says softly. "The boys all send their best, and I got a bunch of texts from TK saying he's gonna break a stick on Manning's face when he gets called up. We've got your back."

Connor laughs and gasps at the same time, and Dylan has to bite his lip. They're both quiet while Connor catches his breath, and then Connor says, "I fucked up."

"No," Dylan says, instant, immediate. "No, Connor."

"I fell over," he says miserably. "They said - I need surgery. It's gonna be months."

Dylan closes his eyes and scrubs at his face, but his voice comes out remarkably even. "You're allowed to make mistakes. You're human just like the rest of us."

"But-"

"No," Dylan cuts in firmly. "You are not allowed to blame yourself for this. Blame the ice, blame your skates, blame the goddamn Flyers. Do not blame yourself. Got it?"

He holds his breath for a moment, because this - it's crossing a line and he knows it, and maybe it's not fair to do it now, when Connor's drugged up and in pain and not right next to Dylan, but. But.

"Can you," Connor finally says, his voice so, so small.

"Can I what?" Dylan asks. _Anything_ , he thinks wildly, he'll do anything.

"Say it again?" Connor asks, so softly that Dylan's not sure he's not hearing things. "Just - please."

"It's not your fault," Dylan says. He doesn't have to try to project confidence; it's the truth and he knows it with everything he's got in him. "You didn't do anything wrong. You didn't fuck up. You aren't allowed to blame yourself for what happened."

Connor makes a tiny noise, and Dylan would do literally anything to be there with him for this. "Thank you," he says. He sounds better somehow, Dylan thinks. Not great, but better.

"You're welcome," Dylan says. "D'you think you can sleep?"

"Maybe," Connor says. Dylan's sure he can; a lot of the tension has bled out of his voice. "Can you stay on the phone with me?"

"Of course, sweetheart," Dylan says softly. "Go to sleep. I'll be here."

-0-

 _Thanks,_ is waiting for Dylan when he wakes up to the sound of his phone beeping its low battery alarm at him. _You always take care of me._

He does, and he's completely sure that he always will. Or that he'll always want to, at least. It's… probably time to actually talk about it.

Dylan sighs. _Need to see you. When can you FaceTime?_

He putters around for a while; Connor had mentioned surgery, and a quick check of the Oilers' news outlets tells Dylan that he's probably having that done now. He'll be out of it for a while, so Dylan goes about his day as he would've anyway: he goes to the rink for practice, does his media scrum, and alternates between trying to keep Brinksy and Marchy from freaking out and trying to keep Marns from flying to Philadelphia to cause serious bodily injury to everyone in the city. Dylan's not altogether sure what Marns' plan actually is, but he can recognise the feeling that's thrumming through their texts: protect, protect.

 _I've got him,_ he finally says. _He's gonna be fine._

 _Fucking ofc,_ Marns texts back. _I still want to punch everything._

 _Noted hockey goon mitch marner,_ Dylan shoots back. _Don't do anything dumb._

There's a few minutes of silence, which Dylan takes as his right as the clear winner of that conversation, but then his phone buzzes again. _Just take care of him ok._

 _Fucking ofc,_ Dylan texts back.

-0-

Dylan jerks awake when his phone starts to ring, and he's answering it before he really processes what's going on. "H'lo?"

"Dyls," Connor says, and Dylan is suddenly, painfully awake. Connor's voice is an unhappy mess of drugged-up and pained, and Dylan aches.

"Oh, Connor," he sighs.

"'m okay," Connor slurs.

Dylan sort of wants to laugh, except he really, really doesn't. "No, you're not," he says. "And that's okay, sweetheart." He shifts. "Who's there with you?"

"Hallsy," Connor replies. "Hallsy's here now. He's really tall."

There's a voice in the background, and Connor mumbles something that Dylan can't make out. "Is that Hallsy?" Dylan asks.

"Yup."

"Can I talk to him?"

There's some shuffling noises, the distinct sound of the phone being dropped, and then Dylan hears, "I swear, Mrs. McDavid, he's fine. Just kinda loopy from the painkillers."

"That's good to know," Dylan says dryly, "but how's he actually doing?"

"Um," Hallsy says. "Who is this?"

"Dylan Strome. Is he as much of a mess as I think he is?"

"Oh," Hallsy says, and there's a note of relief in his voice. "Hang tight, Stromer." He must turn the phone away from his face, because Dylan can hear him talking but not what he's saying. A minute later, he's back. "Yeah, hey. Gaz is watching him, and I'm in the other room."

Dylan sighs. "Lay it on me."

"The surgery went well," Hallsy reports. "It was as minor as a fractured collarbone can actually be. They're projecting four months."

"Fuck," Dylan says.

Hallsy laughs unhappily. "Tell me about it, man."

"Yeah, uh," he says, wracking his brain for any words of Connor-related advice he can dredge up. "You're going to have to force the pain pills down his throat once the stronger stuff wears off, but you can bribe him with cream of broccoli soup. He'll eat it right out of the can, pretty much, but if you give him a bowl of that and a hunk of the really crusty bread he'll do basically anything."

"Good to know," Hallsy says, "but I think I'm shipping him back to his parents for that stage of the game."

Dylan's heart skips a little. "He's coming back east?"

"I'm assuming so," Hallsy says, and Dylan can picture him shrugging. "I mean, his mom's flying out here tomorrow, and after tomorrow's game we're hitting the road. He'll probably be better off healing back in Toronto for a little while, right?"

"Yeah," Dylan agrees. Connor's coming east. Maybe, maybe…

"You should try to see him while he's there, if you can," Hallsy says. He's probably trying for casual, but he's terrible at it. "You know."

"I know what?" Dylan asks.

"You _know,_ " Hallsy insists. "You need to take care of him, Strome. He won't let any of us do it."

Dylan breathes out hard. He hadn't needed the confirmation, but getting it is a little relieving anyway. "I will," he promises. "Is he still awake?"

Hallsy makes a noncommittal noise. "Dude, I don't think he's actually been awake since he left the ice. They drugged him up pretty hardcore."

"Hallsy," Dylan says impatiently.

"Chill," Hallsy orders sternly. "I'm checking to see if - oh, hey, buddy," he says, in the tone of voice Dylan saves for small animals. "You wanna talk to Stromer, huh? Well, maybe I - oh, fuck, ow!"

Dylan snorts. "Pinched you," he guesses. Connor's vicious.

"Fucker," Hallsy whines. "Here, you deal with him."

"Gladly," Dylan says. "Thanks, man."

"Make him stop pinching me," Hallsy says, and then there's more fumbling sounds.

"Dylan," Connor says happily into the phone. "You're back."

Dylan laughs. "Yeah," he agrees. "Hey, so. Are you coming back this way with your mom?"

"I think so," Connor says. "My bed is at home. I want my bed."

"You should come here," Dylan says before he can talk himself out of it. "Not right away, but before you head back to Edmonton. When you're feeling a little better."

"Yeah," Connor sighs, dragging the word out. "Yeah. My bed is there, too."

Dylan smothers his laugh this time. "I'm pretty sure the Cataldes don't have your room set up anymore, buddy."

"Duh," Connor says. " _Your_ bed my bed."

Something twists in Dylan's stomach, and yeah, maybe he should've waited for Connor to sober up a little, but he doesn't actually regret having this conversation now. "Okay, yeah," he manages. "Get some sleep, Connor. Feel better."

"I'll try," Connor mumbles. He doesn't hang up the phone, and Dylan just sits there for a while, listening as his breathing evens out.

-0-

Connor's flight gets in late. It's later than Dylan really wants to be in the airport, but it's Connor; he's committed to doing anything he can for Connor at this point. It's not even resignation, just a fact of his life. 

"Davo," he says when Connor comes out of the gate. He draws it out, pitching his voice high, and Connor's face splits into a grin.

"What's up, buddy?" he asks softly, practically tripping over himself to drop his bag and curl himself into Dylan's arms. Dylan is careful, mindful of Connor's shoulder, but Connor seems not to care. He tucks his face into Dylan's shoulder. "How's it going?"

Dylan can't help himself; he uses every extra bit of size he's got on Connor to pull him even farther in. "You smell good," he laughs, right into Connor's hair. "Better than I was expecting. They letting you shower already?"

"The sutures healed really well," Connor says, fisting both hands in the back of Dylan's shirt. "I'm allowed, as long as I pat it dry instead of just rubbing the towel over it."

"Good, great," Dylan says. He can feel Connor's eyelashes fluttering against his neck."Let's go, eh?"

"Whatever you say," Connor says, but he doesn't let go.

"Connor," Dylan says. He's out of his depth; he knows, now, is aware of what he's really been doing all along, but acknowledging it is making it harder to do. "C'mon. Home has food. And a bed."

"Okay," Connor says. He takes another deep breath, and then he lets go and takes a small step back. He stares for a moment before bending down to get his bag.

"Nuh-uh, no, think again," Dylan says, reaching out and snatching it from him. "You might be cleared for showering, but you're definitely not cleared for bag-carrying."

"I carried it all the way here," Connor protests.

Dylan gives him a look. "But I'm here now," he says patiently. "So now _I_ can carry it."

It's apparently the right thing to say; Connor's expression melts a little, and he smiles. "Okay."

"Let's go," Dylan says, and he leads Connor through the airport and out to his car.

Dylan chucks the bag in the back and opens the front door for Connor, who just beams at him as he climbs in. Dylan's careful about shutting the door, and he takes his time walking around the car. By the time he gets in, Connor has managed his seatbelt, so Dylan buckles himself in and starts the car. He makes it all the way to the highway before he reaches over and puts his hand on Connor's knee, palm up.

Connor doesn't hesitate to take it.

-0-

Connor has to let go of Dylan's hand when they get out of the car, but he takes it again as soon as Dylan retrieves his bag. He doesn't let go when he says hi to Dylan's billet family, or on the way up the stairs, or when Dylan pulls him into his room and shuts the door.

"Davo," Dylan says, and then Connor lets go, but it's only so he can hurl himself at Dylan. Dylan drops Connor's bag in favor of wrapping his arms around Connor and breathing deeply.

"I missed you," Connor mumbles into his shoulder. "I miss you all the time, Stromer. I miss you right now, even though you're here, because I'm gonna be leaving again in a few days."

"Hey, hey," Dylan says, pushing his hands up under Connor's shirt so he's touching skin. Connor sighs and melts against him, and Dylan's just glad he was braced for it. He turns his head so he can press his mouth to Connor's hair for a long moment before saying anything else. "Let's get ready for bed, huh? You're sleeping with me."

Connor shifts on his feet but doesn't pull away. "Can we," he starts, but then trails off.

"Can we what?" Dylan asks gently. "Gotta ask, sweetheart. I'm not gonna say no, but I can't read your mind."

"Just stand here for a minute," Connor whispers. "I just - I need..."

"Of course," Dylan says. He pulls Connor in a little more, slides his hands up Connor's back. "Whatever you need."

Connor nods against his shoulder, just barely, and they sway in place until it feels less like Connor's going to shake apart if Dylan lets go.

"Okay," Connor says, still sounding unsteady. "Okay. I'm okay."

"You're better than okay," Dylan promises. "I just need you to get ready for bed, got it? Change, brush your teeth, wash your face. That's it."

"Okay," Connor repeats, but he sounds more confident now. He lifts his head off of Dylan's shoulder, and Dylan takes the opportunity to slide his hands down out of Connor's shirt. "Five minutes."

"Don't rush," Dylan says sternly. "I don't want you hurting yourself. And take a pain pill before you come back in here, Connor."

"I don't like them," Connor says stubbornly.

Dylan sighs. "And I don't like you hurting," he says. "I'm here, Davo. You don't have to worry, okay? Just take the pill."

Connor closes his eyes and inhales deeply, but when he lets his breath out a lot of the tension drains from his frame. "Okay, Dylan."

"Okay," Dylan repeats. "Get moving so we can get sleeping."

Connor nods and bends carefully, pulling a change of clothes and a toiletry bag from his duffle. He trudges out of the room and down the hallway without looking back.

Dylan takes a deep, even breath. He's not fucking this up. He can't, but he's also starting to feel like he _won't_. It's a little reassuring, he can't lie to himself about that. It's still him and Connor. He just knows the entire score now.

It doesn't take him long to get ready for bed himself; he changes while Connor's in the bathroom, and then lets himself rush where he hadn't let Connor, because he's not injured and he's not the one who needs to be taken care of right now. Connor is sitting on the edge of Dylan's bed when Dylan gets back, and - yeah. Yeah, Dylan's got this.

"Hey," he says softly, sitting on Connor's left side and taking his hand. "So I figured it out, that we're actually doing something here."

Connor flushes and looks down, but he doesn't deny it or, more importantly, try to get away. "I wasn't sure if you knew," he admits. "And then I - Edmonton, you know? And if you didn't know, if I brought it up and I was so far away…"

Dylan brings their hands up to his mouth and brushes a kiss to the back of Connor's hand. "I wouldn't leave. I don't think I'm capable of leaving you."

Connor shudders a little. He glances up at Dylan, then back down. "I'd like to lay down," he says. "With you."

"Oh, good," Dylan says, smiling. "Let's do that. How can we do that without hurting you?"

"I'm supposed to sleep on my back," Connor says, and the complaint is clear in his voice. Connor's a side-sleeper; he's most comfortable curled around a pillow that he can wrap his octopus arms around. Still, though.

"Then lay on your back," Dylan instructs, standing up and shoving the covers aside. "We'll figure it out."

Connor sighs, clearly a little put out that Dylan's not indulging him. There's a lot that Dylan would do for Connor, a lot he already has, even more he's pretty sure he will in the future. Compromising Connor's health in any way will never be on that list.

He does lay down, though, arranging himself carefully against the pillow, and Dylan studies him. "I'm going to get the spare pillows out of the linen closet," he says. "And then you're gonna tell me where to put them."

"Okay," Connor says. He gives Dylan a small smile. "Whatever you say."

Dylan reels a little at the trust Connor's giving him. It's not new; it's not shocking in and of itself. It's the context that's throwing him, but Connor's smile just widens as Dylan stares at him. "Pillows," Dylan says, and dashes for the closet.

Connor tells him exactly where to put each one, making a nest for his shoulder so it's supported and he won't roll over onto it while he's sleeping. Once Dylan is satisfied with it, he climbs carefully into bed and doesn't hesitate to curl himself over Connor, putting his head on Connor's good shoulder and wrapping his arm over Connor's chest. He tangles their legs together and waits, and it barely takes half a minute for Connor to exhale noisily and tilt his head so he's nosing at Dylan's forehead.

He could ask, but Dylan waits Connor out. Finally, quiet like he thinks Dylan has somehow drifted off, he asks, "Dyls?"

"Yeah?" Dylan murmurs.

"Can you…" He sighs and stops. "I'm not good at asking for things."

"I know," Dylan says. Connor never takes anything for himself, not when he can give to other people. It's maybe a character flaw, but Dylan's sure they can work on it. "Ask me anyway?"

"Kiss me," Connor breathes out.

When Dylan shifts to look up, Connor has his eyes closed. His body is still loose beneath Dylan, but there's a crease between his eyebrows. "Hey, look at me," Dylan says.

Connor opens his eyes, and Dylan smiles. "You think I was gonna say no to that, sweetheart? It's like you don't know me at all."

Dylan leans up to kiss Connor's smile, and yeah, he thinks. Yeah, this is good.

**Author's Note:**

> this wasn't going to be posted yet! but there is a LOT OF SNOW and my plans to go to the NWHL all-star game were THWARTED and i am VERY CRANKY about the whole situation, so. have this. (D/s RPF? five years ago me doesn't even know who i am right now.)
> 
> title is from [tom odell's "heal,"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zVxdY4rWIlQ) which. yeah. dare you to not have feelings!
> 
> [follow me on tumblr](http://somehowunbroken.tumblr.com) for hockey crying 22/7. (i sleep occasionally.)


End file.
